


Let Your Hair Down While You Still Can

by alivingfire



Series: tumblr stuff/short fics [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, also sort of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: “Could you, maybe, play with my hair?” Louis can’t see much, but he can feel the rush of heat in Harry’s cheeks when he blushes. “It’s what my mum used to do when I couldn’t sleep.” 
  “Well, if that’s what Mummy Anne did, who am I to disagree?” Louis teases lightly, then runs his hand slowly through Harry’s hair. It’s still a little sticky from the product the hair team put in before the show, still a little crunchy from dried sweat because Harry won’t have access to a shower (with a decent amount of elbow room, at least, unlike the one on the bus) until the morning, but with each stroke of Louis’ hand through lank curls Harry goes looser, looser.  From an anon headcanon ask on tumblr: Can you talk about Louis playing with Harry's hair Rachel? I just really need it in my life right now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I promised ages ago that I'd start sticking my tumblr drabbles over here but I just now got around to it. Sorry for the wait! They'll be cleaned up and probably have some extra stuff added but pretty similar to what was already posted. 
> 
> The links to the original posts will be in the endnotes for if you want to reblog! 
> 
> Title for this one from [My Hair by The Maine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0p2czKVbBEs)

**2011**

“Psst.” 

Louis shifts, the blanket pulling lower across his chest. 

“Lou.” 

Louis makes an inarticulate noise he hopes is understood as _leave if you value your life._

“Louis, _please_.” 

Wait. 

Through the murky fog of interrupted sleep, a thought hits: Louis knows that voice. Not just that; Louis  _likes_ that voice. 

He sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Haz?” he asks, voice grainy, “what time’s’it?” 

“Early,” Harry whispers. “Really early, ‘m so sorry, Lou.” 

Louis sits up further, as far as his tiny bus bunk will allow, and rubs at his eyes again. “Is everything okay?” The more he blinks, the more his vision clears, little by little. Harry looks pale, the shadows under his eyes deep. “Haz, babe, what’s wrong?” 

“I just,” Harry says, still whispering. He looks like a kid caught out of bed, his toes pointed together, his lips pouted. “I can’t sleep.” 

“Oh,” Louis says. “Aren’t you exhausted? I’m drained after the show tonight.” Then his brain catches up to the rest of him once more, and he realizes the problem. “Oh! Honey, it’s fine, c’mon, you can sleep here.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Absolutely. My bum’s big but I think we can both fit.” 

“Your bum’s not big, Lou,” Harry mumbles, flopping his awkward way up into Louis’ bunk. Below them, Zayn grunts and swats at Harry’s hanging foot while he shifts around, the bunk creaking as he settles. “S’perfect.” 

Louis snorts. “Thanks, dear.” 

“Welcome.” Harry rolls over and Louis copies him, their faces so close Louis can see every tired sweep of his lashes even in the gloomy bus light. “I think it’s the sound of the road. I can’t stop listening to it.” 

Louis understands; the sound of tires against pavement did get to him for a little while too, but he was so tired it wasn't enough to keep him awake. Clearly, for Harry, he didn’t have quite the same luck. “Aw, c’mere Haz.” He opens his arms and lets Harry wiggle close, his forehead pressed to Louis’ shoulder. 

Harry’s still tense, though, the tired kind like all that’s holding his bones together is the threat of sleep between his sinews, and Louis is sort of at a loss for what to do. Normally Harry can drop into sleep the moment he sits down; this is something new. 

“Could you…” Harry trails off. 

“Yeah?” 

“Could you, maybe, play with my hair?” Louis can’t see much, but he can feel the rush of heat in Harry’s cheeks when he blushes. “It’s what my mum used to do when I couldn’t sleep.” 

“Well, if that’s what Mummy Anne did, who am I to disagree?” Louis teases lightly, then runs his hand slowly through Harry’s hair. It’s still a little sticky from the product the hair team put in before the show, still a little crunchy from dried sweat because Harry won’t have access to a shower (with a decent amount of elbow room, at least, unlike the one on the bus) until the morning, but with each stroke of Louis’ hand through lank curls Harry goes looser, looser. His tense shoulders slump into Louis’ chest, the tight line of his neck curves. 

Soon he’s snoring, and Louis’ hand might be cramping, but he continues pulling his fingers through Harry’s tangled hair until the road under the bus blurs his mind into sleep as well. 

(From then on, when Harry’s homesick, or Harry’s just regular sick, or he’s cranky from lack of sleep or someone drank the smoothie he stuck in the fridge or Liam stole his socks again, he finds Louis and he nudges his head wordlessly against Louis’ hand until Louis is petting him into a better mood.) 

(It always works.) 

 

**2012**

Harry sighs and sinks lower, his toes peeking out from above the bubbles, and rolls his head to look up at Louis. 

“This is heaven,” he says, and Louis toasts his glass against Harry’s in agreement. 

“Hear, hear.” 

Harry’s London house— _their_ London house, though they can’t call it that—is sometimes a risky place to be, what with the fans who periodically camp out near his bins or the paparazzi who tend to find themselves in the area when Harry and Louis are there too (and it’s not like anything will leak, Jones told them, but  _Simon’s getting tired of shelling out money to keep the tabs from running your picture while you’re out looking like boyfriends_ ). But they’d had a long day of interviews and had to put in appearances at a club’s opening night and they were too exhausted to drive out to the house on the edge of the city, so here they are. 

It’s not like the place is a pit, though; Harry hadn’t had much choice of locale when he was told he was going to be investing in a public house so he and Louis officially wouldn’t be living together, but this place is lovely. An absolutely monstrous kitchen, a master bedroom looking like something out of a magazine spread, and, of course, it has a [bathtub](http://virginiavoice.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/vintage-bathrooms-uk.jpg) to absolutely die for. 

Harry sinks even lower and the water ripples, little licks of heat splashing further up Louis’ chest. Harry's skin is silky slick against his front, and Louis feels a content groan rumble in his own throat. 

Harry drains the last of his glass—Gemma’d left a bottle of riesling last time she was over—and sets it aside on the window ledge beside them. He stretches back and hooks his arm over Louis’ neck. “Let’s just never leave.” 

“Perfect idea, love,” Louis says, finishing the last of his glass as well. The wine sits heavy in his stomach but the water is warm and lovely against his skin, and there’s the very interesting feeling of Harry trailing light fingertips along his thigh under the water. “We’ll just call the lads up to record the next couple of albums here. Acoustics should be wonderful.” 

Harry giggles and yawns, his eyelids dipping low. “Yeah, agreed. A drum set would fit right over there,” he says, pointing vaguely. 

“Right, another good idea,” Louis laughs. Harry's head is dropping like he can't keep himself awake any longer, so Louis prods gently at his arm. “Let me wash your hair, love, and we’ll get out of here.” 

“No,” Harry mumbles, eyes closing. “We’re staying forever.” 

“We’d get hungry eventually,” Louis says, manhandling Harry into a slightly more upright position. “Plus, I’ve heard there’s a bed on the other side of that door that two certain people spent a lot of time choosing specifically for times like these.” 

“Bed,” Harry sighs wistfully. “Yeah, I like that idea.” 

“Good. Lean back.” 

Louis cups his hands and wets Harry’s hair, the curls flattening into long drips of umber that brush his shoulders; almost like watercolors, the tans and brunettes of Harry’s skin and hair fluidly mixing. He reaches past Harry to snag the shampoo, Harry’s fancy kind with the curl enhancement and all-natural ingredients to keep his skin from being irritated, and pours a dollop into the middle of his palm. 

Harry sighs once more when Louis starts massaging the shampoo into his scalp, thumbs pressing into that spot where he gets headaches sometimes at the base of his skull. 

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry moans, his head lolling like he can’t even think, “you are too good at this.” 

Louis grins and works the shampoo into a lather, gently detangling a few of Harry’s more stubborn curls, until it all slides through his fingers easily, glossy and shiny. He wets his hands again and does a few more passes, sculpting Harry’s hair up into a tiny bun on top of his head, then a Flock of Seagulls-esque double wave, and then the classic mohawk. 

“Time to rinse,” he says when he’s finished, and Harry makes an unhappy noise. “Hazza, I told you, we can’t stay in here forever.” 

Harry turns to Louis, his hair covered in suds and twisted into two pigtails, his bottom lip pouted out. “Five more minutes?” 

Louis lets out a gusty sigh but slides his hands back into Harry’s hair, then presses a kiss to Harry’s soapy shoulder. 

(They don’t get out of the tub for another twenty minutes.) 

(Louis only complains a _little_.)

 

**2013**

“Don’t you think it’s too… I don’t know. Perfect?” Harry asks, his nose scrunched as he surveys his reflection. 

“Uh, well,” Lou says, her comb and hairspray in hand and her expression completely perplexed. “I’ve got complaints about my work before, but I can honestly say this is a first.” 

“It’s just so… I don’t know,” Harry says again. The little line between his eyes is growing deeper and deeper. “Babe? Don’t you think it’s too perfect?” 

Louis looks up from his phone and smiles, meeting Lou’s eyes in the mirror before flicking downward to check Harry’s hair. The big bosses had called for a chop—with no explanation as to why, though Louis thought it probably had a lot to do with why he wasn’t allowed to wear colorful jeans anymore: can’t have the girl magnets looking anything but fully masculine—and Harry had no say in the matter, but Lou had done the best she could. Still, it’s obvious Harry hates it, obvious in the way he tugs at the tiny curls next to his ears in frustration, like if he yanks hard enough the hair will grow back. 

It’s combed back in a quiff now, high and arching; a lot like Grimmy’s, actually, and Louis wonders if that’s on purpose. 

“I think you look beautiful, darling,” he says honestly, and Harry rolls his eyes but can’t hide his grin. 

“You always think I look beautiful,” he complains. 

“And I’ll never stop.” 

“This is precious, lads, but I need to know what you want me to do,” Lou interrupts. “Hazza, if you don’t like the quiff I’ll have to work quickly to change it, and I don’t know that anything will work with your length right now better than a quiff.” 

Harry frowns, brow furrowed, and moves his head side to side again to see his full reflection. And then he sighs, getting to his feet. “It’s fine, I s’pose. Thanks, Lou.” 

“No problem. Don’t fuss with it, it’ll be fine.” 

Harry just huffs and lets Louis lead him from their hair and makeup room and out into the busy hallways, the VMAs staff scampering around the milling artists and crews. Rihanna is somewhere nearby, according to the hushed whispers of the people with clipboards, and so is Bruno Mars, which is apparently cause for panic. Louis is about to take a shortcut down a side hallway when he sees familiar blonde hair and backtracks, pulling Harry back into the crowded river of people. 

“Why didn’t we go that way?” Harry asks over the commotion as Miley Cyrus strips down right in the middle of a group of people to change into a new outfit. 

“Um, no reason,” Louis answers, weaving through a group of Katy Perry’s stylists. 

“Really? It wasn’t because that’s where Taylor’s getting ready?” 

“What?” Louis asks, then clears his throat. “No? Of course not.” 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, voice dry. He follows Louis into their dressing room, ignoring the looks Niall, Zayn, Liam, and Paul shoot them when he slams the door behind him. “Because it looked that way to me.” 

"Well, it wasn't," Louis says, voice tight. 

"I think you're lying," Harry says, mouth pinched, "and you shouldn't lie to me, Lou, especially not about-" 

“Okay, fine,” Louis says, turning and throwing his hands up into the air. The air in the room goes absolutely still; the only thing Louis hears is Liam's intake of breath at the sudden outburst. “Fine! That’s exactly it. I hate that she’s about to win an award based on songs about you, or at least songs everyone _thinks_ are about you, and that she’s going to get to play the brokenhearted victim when you’ve done nothing wrong. And I hate that the cameras are going to cut to you during her speech, and that you’ll have to look all cool and collected and a hundred thousand people will talk about how much of a jerk you are because of it. And most of all, I hate that you’re acting like everything’s unavoidable and that it doesn’t bother you, because I _know_ it does.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, Harry and Louis staring at each other, and then Paul says, “Alri’, you three, let’s go get you sorted wi’ Lou.”

"But we're already dressed!" Niall objects. He flicks his glance towards Harry and Louis, frowning; the two of them don't fight much, but Niall likes to be there in the rare case one of them steps over a line they shouldn't have. Liam looks torn, too—they're cutting it close, but he won't want Harry and Louis trying to get through an event while mad at each other. 

"C'mon," Paul says, not giving them another option, and he herds their bandmates to the door. Liam gives them his puppy-dog look and Niall pats a consoling hand on Louis’ shoulder and Zayn meets Louis' eyes, checking in that he's okay, that they'll _be_ okay, and Louis nods for him to go. As Paul leaves, he says, “Alberto’s ri' outside the door. You got five minutes.” 

And then there were two. 

“I have to act like it doesn’t bother me,” Harry says immediately, and his voice isn’t dry now. It’s croaky, like he needs water, or maybe like he’s underwater, Louis isn’t sure. “Don’t you see that? If I crumble, I won’t get back up. If I start crying about how unfair it is that she gets to write about my stupid necklace when you have  _this_ ,” he rubs his thumb roughly over Louis’ tattoo, the little lines following the inked paper airplane, “when you have the real thing, then I’ll never stop. And tomorrow, instead of people writing about me being an asshole, they’ll write about me being brokenhearted over _Taylor fucking Swift,_ and she doesn’t get to do that to me. To _us_.” 

"But we know the truth," Louis says. "We know that's not real." 

"Half the internet knows that's not real!" Harry cries. "It doesn't matter. I can't let her win, not this part. She gets everything else, but I at least get to choose how I come out of this tonight." 

Louis takes Harry’s hand, squeezes, tries to regulate his breathing. “Okay. Okay, I get it.” 

“Do you?” Harry asks, little more than a rasp. “Because I can’t do this without you, Lou.” 

“I’m right here,” Louis promises. “I’ll always be right here.” He pulls Harry in for a kiss, careful to keep their noses from bumping and smudging their makeup, a move they’ve long perfected. When Louis pulls back, he lets out a breath and smiles a small smile. “Alright. Ready to own that red carpet?” 

“You mean ready to go out there looking like an extra on _Geordie Shore_?” Harry scoffs, gesturing to his nearly-orange spray tan and perfectly coiffed quiff, his hair an unbroken wave of brown. 

Louis’ grin widens. “I like the quiff, love. And I’ll like messing it up later.” 

“Can’t you do it now?” Harry asks grumpily, tugging at the hair near his ears again. “I hate this.” 

Louis hums, and tilts his head in consideration. “Okay.” 

“What? You will?” Harry asks, perking up. 

Louis hums again, and steps closer. He brings Harry in for another kiss, slow and melting, simmering heat under the surface. Slowly, carefully, he runs his hand through the front of Harry’s quiff, feeling the hairsprayed hair part under his fingers and bounce back. When he steps back, he chuckles. 

“Not so perfect anymore,” he promises, and Harry spins to look in the mirror. 

“Lou, you’re a genius,” he breathes, and steals one more kiss before Alberto knocks on the door and tells them it’s time to meet the boys for the red carpet walk. Harry checks his hair one last time, then tucks his wide smile away and puts on his Harry Styles mask, cheeky grin and chewing gum and all. 

And so they hit the red carpet ahead of a night of taunting questions and comments about the Haylor album, and Harry faces it headlong with his boys at his back, and his [quiff broken up](http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/bg/2013%20MTV%20Video%20Music%20Awards%20ZV0Tlv2gEyYx.jpg) by three distinct finger furrows. 

(When Taylor wins an award for the song that might as well be titled "This is About Harry Styles," Niall leans over and says, "Horrible, I fuckin' told ya," because they all knew it was coming. Louis doesn't answer, because if he opens his mouth he might start screaming, and if he starts screaming it'll probably be telling Taylor she should hop on her white horse and head out of here, so he just smiles. But he cheats a look at Harry, because that's what everyone else is doing too, the whole room is looking at Harry, and he looks perfectly cool. Calm. Like an asshole, the kind of asshole to break a girl's heart without a single care.) 

(He turns and meets Louis' eye and, for just a second, Louis can see the real Harry, the one saying  _I hate this_ and  _I'm sorry you have to see this_ and  _I love you_. Louis, the moment the cameras leave them alone as Taylor exits the stage, flashes Harry a thumbs up. It's all they can do, a little bit of sign language and Harry's hair with traces of Louis' fingers, but it's enough.)

(Harry can’t smile, _it doesn’t fit your image!_ , but damn if Louis can. And damn if Louis _does_.) 

 

**2014**

Harry shoves Louis back against the wall and he connects with a _thud,_ his shoulders aching but his blood racing too much for him to notice. Harry follows, crowding him against this random stretch of brick at the back of this arena, this random— _fuck—_ arena in— _Jesus,_ Harry—in, where the hell are they? Canada, somewhere? _Fuck,_ who cares, who cares when he’s got the most gorgeous man on earth pressing every inch of his body against him. 

Harry attacks Louis’ neck with sharp bites, sloppy lathes of tongue against his pulse point and the dip above his collarbones. 

“Couldn’t look away from you tonight,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ skin, planting kisses up along Louis’ hairline, ticklishly light. 

“Me?” Louis gasps, throwing his head to the side, a silent plea for _more_ , “what about _you_? Coming out halfway through the show in _this-”_

He pinches the sleeve of the [sheer black shirt](http://ohstylesno.tumblr.com/post/94099811248/x) he’s definitely never seen before, so sinful that if he _had_ seen it he’d have never let Harry out of the bedroom. Fuck the show, fuck the tickets; it’s the same setlist every night, it's not like the fans couldn't have pieced together what would've happened.

Okay, okay, he doesn't mean that. But, _Jesus,_ he can't help that his first thought was to get Harry and himself somewhere alone. Besides, the fans saw Harry tonight, they’d get it, they’d understand his motivation. 

Harry pulls back and grins, lascivious and wicked. “You don’t like it?” he asks, faux innocent, Bambi eyes and sultry stares. 

“Don’t like it?” Louis growls. He guides Harry’s hand towards his cock, achingly hard in his skinnies. Harry gasps, the teasing shine in his eyes replaced by something more hungry. “Does it feel like I don’t like it?” 

“Fuck,” Harry moans. “Lou, let me, let me-” 

“Yeah, Haz, Christ, _please_ -” 

Harry fumbles Louis’ zip open, shaky hands sending spirals of heat through Louis every time he brushes against Louis’ cock. He’s weak-kneed and heavy-limbed, swimming in a sea of need, and Harry’s is his only anchor. 

“Ha,” Louis laughs to himself, then his breath hitches as Harry finally gets a hand around him, hot palm pulling unearthly sounds out of him. 

“What’s funny?” 

“Anchor, you’re…” Louis trails off, head going fuzzy. Harry adds an extra twist and thumbs along his vein and he whimpers. “And… I’m…” 

“Right,” Harry says, then cuts Louis off with a smoldering kiss, all fire and desperation and brightly burning need. They grapple against each other as though there’s so _much_ in their bodies that they can’t help it, each hard press of skin to skin like a flare gun, like a firework, like something else so bright it makes Louis’ vision flash. 

“Haz,” Louis gasps. He needs a breather, he needs a _breath_ , his head’s spinning and he’s wobbly with want and wonder and all the blood in his body redirecting itself but Harry’s unstoppable, insatiable, taking Louis’ mouth back again and again. 

Louis loses track of the minutes and the day and everything except this boy, this boy who’s trying to kill him in the best way, but his hand moves without his permission and buries itself in Harry’s hair. A tug, a yank; Harry gasps and goes still, his head tilted up and his eyes slitted. 

“Lou,” he breathes; Louis tightens his grip and Harry whimpers, heat flooding his cheeks. His pupils go so wide that the black eclipses the green, deep pools Louis might fall into. 

But first. 

Louis scratches his fingernails against Harry’s scalp and Harry sways; Louis lets him get close, lets him crowd Louis back against the wall as though he thinks he can just pick up where they left off. 

And then Louis winds his fingers through Harry’s curls and _pulls,_ pulls until Harry’s knees buckle, until suddenly he’s on the floor, looking up at Louis with wide eyes. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks, just to check. 

“Yeah, fuck, of _course_ yeah,” Harry babbles, pawing at Louis’ jeans again, tugging them down to the tops of Louis’ thighs so his cock springs free. Harry actually moans when he sees it, wetting his lips. 

“Pull my hair again,” he begs, because it’s been four years and a lot of sex and they don’t get shy about asking for what they want anymore; Louis pushes Harry’s headscarf out of his curls and buries his hand there without question—what Harry wants, Harry gets. 

Harry’s mouth is hot and wet and perfect and suddenly Louis feels like _he’ll_ end up on the floor, Harry’s weight against the front of his legs the only thing keeping him upright. Harry slides down once, slowly, then again a little faster, just to get the slide slick, then- stops. He pulls back, just the tip of Louis’ cock resting against his tongue, and looks up at Louis through his eyelashes. 

Well, if that’s how he wants this to go, Louis won’t argue. 

Louis uses his grip on Harry’s hair and fucks his hips forward: shallow, at first, then building to a deeper rhythm. Harry moans, not loudly, but constantly, tiny helpless noises each time Louis presses in. His hands cling to Louis’ thighs, his hips undulating on their own with no help, nothing to press against. 

Louis doesn’t last long; it was a long show tonight with Harry flouncing around looking like a wet dream and Louis unable to get his hands on him, and Harry’s mouth is too talented to resist giving in for too long. He wrings an orgasm out of Louis easily, his mouth going soft and hot when Louis moans, snapping his hips one last time. 

“C’mon,” Louis pants after his vision clears, “now you.” 

“No need,” Harry says, voice a bit dreamy as he rests his forehead against Louis’ hipbone. Louis looks down and sees the evidence for himself, a wet patch at the front of Harry’s jeans, the looseness of his limbs. 

“God,” Louis breathes reverently. “I fucking love you.” 

He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair once more, and Harry smiles, slowly, like clouds shifting after rain, and murmurs, “I love you too.” 

(The stage crew and band know better than to say anything to Harry and Louis about their disheveled clothes, wild hair, red cheeks [not that they’d be embarrassed, far from it: the crew had been told far,  _far_  too many sordid details over the years to think the two of them were shy], but Niall takes one look at them and busts into laughter.) 

(He isn’t laughing later, though, when he finds Louis and Harry kissing frantically on _his_ bed, and ends up having to pull them off the bunk into the floor before they stop.) 

(The stop is momentary; Harry’s back hits the floor, he shrugs, and then he reconnects his mouth with Louis’. Niall isn’t even surprised, just mutters, “Keep it down this time, y’ cunts,” and climbs into bed with his noise-canceling headphones.)

 

**2015**

“So, ladies,” Louis says, leaning back and surveying their work so far. “We’re missing something. What are we missing?” 

“Pra!” Doris shouts, lifting a jar of purple glitter. 

“Perfect! What a fashion genius you are, Dorie, you’ll follow right in Lottie’s footsteps, eh?” Louis says, taking the pot of glitter and a brush. “Now, let’s see.” There’s a chorus of giggles as Louis taps the brush against his chin as if deep in thought. “Can’t really do it here,” he says, smoothing his thumb under the arch of Harry’s eyebrows. “Might clash with the blue eyeshadow. And not here,” he moves to Harry’s lips, which are twitching in an effort not to smile, “because _obviously_ purple and red are _so_ last season.” 

“They’re actually three seasons ago,” Lottie calls, not looking up from her magazine. 

“That’s what I said,” Louis says, and there’s another round of giggles. Doris bounces in Fizzy’s lap, clapping with glee. “Can’t do here, because of Daisy’s excellent highlighter work.” Daisy cackles and claps a hand to her mouth as Louis runs his finger next to a bright green slash of glitter powder across the apples of Harry’s cheeks. “Now, guess that only leaves one place.” 

He dips his thumb into the glitter and rubs it slowly across Harry’s forehead, whispering as dramatically as he can, “ _Simba.”_

Phoebe howls with laughter, lifting one of Doris’ stuffed toys over her head and singing, “IT’S THE CIIIIRCLE OF LIIIIFE” as Fizzy and Daisy join in, chattering nonsense at the parts of the song in Zulu that they don’t quite have memorized. 

Harry blinks his eyes open, now that he’s not the center of attention anymore, and grins at Louis. He’s got patches of color all over his face, wild streaks of a rainbow of hues, and he looks delighted by the whole experience. 

Before he can say anything, Doris stands and demands her toy back, which Phoebe responds to by running out of the room, carrying the toy aloft. She’s followed by a screeching Doris, a laughing Daisy, and an eye-rolling Fizzy; Lottie looks up to see the zoo has left the room and wanders out as well, possibly to maintain order but more likely to sneak away before she gets roped into settling the babies down for naps. 

“God, Lou, I can’t _wait_ until our house is like this,” Harry murmurs, eyes sparkling. “We’re gonna have so many babies, I can’t wait.” 

“Maybe let’s get married first, babe,” Louis laughs, pushing softly at Harry’s shoulder until he gets the hint and turns around. Louis pulls the hair tie from Harry’s hair, letting the curls cascade out of their high bun, and starts to comb through them. 

“Is that a proposal?” Harry teases. 

“I think you mean, ‘is that _another_ proposal?’” Louis corrects, grinning. He reaches forwards and takes Harry’s hand, kissing over the bear ring settled in the dip of his finger. (Ironic, that later they’d be associated with an entirely different kind of bear, the new one rainbow-colored and fuzzy and a little more recognizable than the ring on Harry’s finger. Funny how fate works, though.) Harry hums happily and the room settles into quiet, the distant sounds of family cacophony reaching them even all the way across the house. 

Louis digs through Fizzy’s bag of makeup and hair stuff and finds a comb and another hair tie, and he starts the arduous but rewarding process of sweeping the tangles from Harry’s hair. Harry huffs a noise of amusement but his shoulders slump comfortably with each new path of the comb through soft hair, the curls tumbling almost down to the dip between Harry’s shoulder blades. 

“So you’re going to marry me,” Harry says, picking up their conversation once more, “and _then_ you’ll give me babies.” 

“As many as you want,” Louis promises. “As many as our houses can hold.” 

“That’s a lot,” Harry chuckles. “The Manchester house alone-” 

“We’d have a small army of little brats, yeah,” Louis laughs, separating Harry’s hair into two sections and starting a loose French braid down the left half. 

“I want that,” Harry says quietly, reaching back to rub at Louis’ knee. “I love our life, you know I love our life, and I’ll do this,” he says, waving vaguely to convey the idea of the band, their careers, their lives out in the public, “for as long as we can, but I want the other stuff too.” 

“I know, love,” Louis says, tying off the braid and starting on the other side. “I do. But it’s not like we’ll have to give up the band when we have kids. Look at Mick, he’s got like forty-five of them and he still rocks it.” 

“Rockstar dads?” Harry asks, like he’d never thought about it—and, really, Louis can’t even laugh at the reverence in his tone. To be in One Direction and to also get to be a dad, to travel the world making music and be able to come home to a family of their own: that’s the dream. 

“Rockstar dads,” Louis confirms, finishing the second braid. Harry turns and blinks his cerulean-coated eyelashes at Louis, puckers his red lips.  

“How do I look?” 

“Like a hot mess,” Louis grins. “Want me to clean you up?” 

“Nah,” Harry declines, smiling widely. “Leave it just a little longer.” 

(A few months later, they’ll follow a realtor onto the property of a gated compound in Malibu, an over-the-top mansion hidden among the trees, the yard dotted with pools and guest houses and meditation tea houses. “This is it,” Harry will say, gripping Louis’ hand. “This is where we start our family.”) 

(But before they can fill it with _future_ family, they invite their brothers to invest with them; Niall takes one wing of the mansion, Liam takes a guest house, and they have free reign to do what they wish with their spaces. Their families stay from time to time, and it’s no longer a surprise when Louis heads down for breakfast and finds Maura at the stove already, or Geoff drinking coffee in the breakfast nook, or Gemma and Fizzy doing yoga out by the tea house. Stan and his wife pop in from time to time, and James and his brood; Ed crashes in Niall’s wing for a full month. It’s adopted family and found family and blood family all together, mixing together, living together, and it’s more than Louis could’ve hoped.) 

(And that’s how Louis gets to watch Harry discover that their home is _already_ a family home, and it continues to be so for years and years: dozens of little Horans and Paynes and Tomlinson-Styles grow up in that compound, surrounded by family and friends and love and laughter and music, always music.)

 

**2016**

Harry breathes out a slow, steady breath as he settles into Jason’s chair, wiggling nervously like he can’t get comfortable. Jason pulls a hair tie off his own wrist and scoops Harry’s hair back easily, starting to throw it into a low ponytail, but then-

“Wait, sorry, wait,” Harry chokes out. He reaches for Louis’ hand and squeezes so tightly his knuckles go white. Jason steps back immediately, letting Harry’s hair swing back into place, and murmurs, _I’ll give you two a minute._

“You okay, Haz?” Louis asks, running easy hands through Harry’s hair. Harry leans into it, looking up at Louis with wide, scared eyes. 

“What if I’m like Samson,” he says, voice little more than a wheeze, “what if I cut my hair and everything is gone?” 

“What do you mean ‘everything is gone’?” Louis asks, brow furrowed. 

“The fans! They love my hair, they say so all the time. And you, you could leave, you always tell me you love my hair.” 

“Harry Styles, if you think I would leave you over one haircut-” 

“No, no,” Harry sighs, frustrated. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m just… scared.” 

“I know that,” Louis says. He crouches down to Harry’s eye level, strokes his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “But you’ve got to do this, babe. You have to go run off to be a soldier, play around in the mud and on boats and become an even bigger deal than you already are.” 

“Or-” 

“No, nope. No ‘or’s, or ‘but’s. You wanted this film part so badly, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you had me rehearse your audition piece over and over and over until we both had it memorized? And I could probably act out Dunkirk all on my own by now. You want this, Harry, you’re just panicking.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes Louis’ hand back. 

“C’mon, love,” Louis murmurs. “One more braid for old times’ sake, and they we’ll get you properly groomed. Can’t have you going off to war looking like some sort of hippie musician.” 

“I don’t think they called people hippies during World War II, Lou,” Harry says, grinning weakly as Louis steps up behind him, combing his hair back into a quick braid. 

“You’ll be the first one, then,” Louis says, tying Jason’s hair tie around the end of the braid and reaching down to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders. They stay like that, Louis wrapped around Harry and Harry leaning back into Louis’ arms, for a quiet moment. 

“Everything’s changing,” Harry whispers. 

Louis nods, presses his lips to the crown of Harry’s head. “I know. But in this case, change is good.” 

Another deep breath, and then Harry nods for Jason to come back in. 

In two minutes, his braid is unattached to the rest of him, his short new hair a wild mop atop his head, and he keeps touching the back of his neck like he can’t believe it. 

“How do I look?” he asks nervously, barely meeting Louis’ eyes. 

“Oh, you know me, Haz,” Louis smiles, his heart so full of love for this boy that his eyes are wet with tears, “I always think you’re beautiful.” 

(And he always, always will.)

**Author's Note:**

> Posted originally [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/post/150761194031).


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